


My Sweet Dumpling

by depressivenightmaregoblin



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Incest Kink, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Naked Male Clothed Male, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Stripping, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depressivenightmaregoblin/pseuds/depressivenightmaregoblin
Summary: The Nerevarine is rising up the ranks of of House Hlaalu, but needs a councilor’s sponsorship. But first, Crassius must take a good look at his “credentials.”CW: Canon light incest kink. No actual incest, just an Imperial pansexual pervert who likes to be called “Uncle.”
Relationships: Crassius Curio/Male Nerevarine
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	My Sweet Dumpling

The cantons of Vivec were robed in fog that morning, as they were on many spring mornings. A wind swept northward from the Inner Sea, carrying cool air across the placid surface of Lake Amara, gathering droplets of dew as it traveled and suspending them in the sky like fine gossamer. The imposing stone structures appeared from the mist so suddenly one might think it Lord Vivec’s own divine magic. But even the great Warrior-Poet could not sculpt a land as beautiful as Vvardenfell. And many would say its crown jewel is the city of Vivec, built and named to honor the Living God. It is difficult not to feel humbled by the sheer scale, and despite boasting a population befitting a bustling port city, the only constant companion is the gentle rhythm of waves lapping at its foundations.

Along with the Tribunal Temple and Vivec’s own holy Palace, each of the Great Houses—at least, those with a foothold off of the mainland, as some could not be bothered with the island or its inhabitants—boasted their own canton, with fine accommodations for high-ranking councilors and an assortment of artisans and merchants serving only members of their respective Houses. Though the Dunmer no longer venerate her, the teachings of Mephala the Webspinner are the first threads that wove the Dunmer culture, for she taught the Dark Elves to lie, to manipulate, and to make war, and divided them into the tribes that became the six Great Houses. Things change slowly when lifetimes last centuries, and some alive could still remember the days before the Tribunal. Though few spoke of the time before Blessed Almsivi anymore for fear of the Ordinators, who came down hard on so-called heretics and blasphemers, their grim golden masks bereft of compassion or pity.

It was rare that an outlander was allowed to live or work outside of the Foreign Quarter, designated as such by the Imperial seals adorning it. Even rarer still that a human would rise to a position of power within one of the Houses. But Crassius Curio was not an ordinary man. Those who knew him chose their words carefully when they described him, often talking more about his manor atop House Hlaalu’s canton than the man himself.

Nileno Dorvayn, the dour-yet-maternal Kinsman Sulthyr had reported to when he first pledged himself to House Hlaalu, had chosen the word “eccentric,” adding that Curio’s “appetites” would make him a perfect choice for a sponsor. Sulthyr was unsure what she meant by that exactly, but he could make a few educated guesses. He had made coin here and there satisfying the carnal appetites of Men and Mer, as many desperate youths do. He wasn’t the handsomest Elf, at least not by Elven standards, but he was charming, and he had the lean strong build of someone who had to work hard for every septim. And most of all, he knew what men liked. And he liked men.

As the silt strider lumbered on towering legs from Balmora to Vivec, he had taken out a small hand mirror and a comb and brushed the knots from his long black hair, securing it out of his face with a few small braids. When they arrived he shook the dust and ash out of his clothes, wondering absently if he’d ever be free of the layer of particulate so thoroughly distributed by the storms from Red Mountain. Some said an ancient evil dwelt deep inside the volcano, spewing ashen blight and death over the land. All he could say for sure was that the storms were growing in frequency and intensity, and that there always seemed to be grit in his mouth. He spat on the ground at the thought, grimacing.

It wasn’t worth it to try to navigate the labyrinthine bridges and pathways on his own, he decided, so he made his way to one of the many gondoliers that dotted the canals of the city, carrying passengers from one canton to another. A couple of gold coins changed hands and they were off, the massive complex rising high above them on all sides like the walls of a deep ravine. The Dark Elves weren’t fond of small talk, and the boatman was no different. Dunmer or not, he was an outlander, and Vvardenfell had no time for outlanders. It was ironic, he thought, that he had spent his youth in the Imperial City dreaming of being surrounded by crimson-eyed faces like his own, only to find that his own people treated him more like an unwelcome stranger than any of the races of Men ever had. He tried not to dwell on it too much. Though sometimes, lying alone in bed, it would all come crashing down on him, filling his chest with a hollow ache that knew no curative.

The myriad of beads adorning the gondolier’s conical straw hat tinkled as she reached toward the ropes of the dock, steadying her craft with a confident hand so that Sulthyr could disembark at his destination.

“Three blessings upon you, outlander,” she intoned, invoking the three Gods of the Tribunal, and pushed off, her boat cutting through the surf almost soundlessly. The suspended bridge leading him up to the first level creaked softly under his weight. The thick ropes were surprisingly smooth under his grip, likely polished down by hundreds of hands. He had to use both his arms and his legs to hoist himself up the incline, the structure at times becoming more like a ladder than a bridge. By the time he reached the top he had worked up a light sweat, his thick netch leather armor doing him no favors as the morning rapidly turned to afternoon. Knowing the importance of a good first impression, he loosened the straps and laces on his cuirass, giving himself a moment to cool off. A welcome breeze blew through the gaps in his armor, billowing the thin linen shirt he wore underneath. Breathing a sigh of relief, he dabbed his brow with the scarf looped around his neck—an essential all races carried in Vvardenfell, on account of the dust—and gathered himself. Perhaps it was nerves and not just heaving himself up the wooden steps that was making him feel feverish. He reminded himself how easy Nileno had told him it would be and began making his way up the ramp to the plaza on the second story, taking care not to walk too fast in case he broke out in a sweat again. After all, Councilor Curio wasn’t expecting him, so there was no reason to hurry.

The plaza of the Hlaalu canton was not as large or impressive as some of the other plazas, which capped each canton with a bronze dome that Sulthyr imagined might gleam like great beetles, if it weren’t for the sea wind leaving a green-blue film on each of their polished surfaces. The soft hum of many overlapping voices reminded him at once of the capital city he had once called home, the White Gold Tower at its center soaring impossibly high over their heads, a silent reminder to all of the Emperor’s subjects of the indomitable power of his Dragonblood.

Curio Manor was marked by two linen banners framing the entrance, both bearing the scale sigil of House Hlaalu. It was small for a manor, built that way to fit inside the plaza. Once inside, it became apparent that the home, though still smaller than many mansions of similar status, was deceptively large, owing to several flights of stairs expanding the property down into the floor below. Two Dunmer were meeting over several girthy tomes in the sitting room, barely looking up from their work to point Sulthyr toward the staircase. As he descended, he could hear two men talking, and recognized a Cyrodillic accent in one of the voices. The two fell silent as he reached the foot of the stairs, likely having heard his approach. He breathed in deeply and rounded the corner.

“Crassius Curio?” he inquired, sounding far calmer than he was. He was always good at that.

“Yes,” a honeyed voice answered from behind one of many doors, this one slightly ajar. Sulthyr followed it into a bedroom. Before him stood a handsome Imperial dressed in fine silks and velvets, gold and jewels decorating his throat and fingers. His hair was jaw-length and dark, longer than most Imperial men wore. His facial hair was meticulously groomed and the same shade of deep brown. He wasn’t a young man, but he wasn’t old either; he was middle-aged by human standards, Sulthyr guessed in his late thirties or early forties. Curiously, he lacked the soft belly of many noblemen his age, and immediately reminded Sulthyr of the hard-working sailors and dock workers he had watched haul cargo as a boy, their rippling muscles and rough hands filling him with a yearning he didn’t yet understand. He felt his pulse quicken, the hairs on the back of his neck rising in… anticipation? He wasn’t sure.

“I’m Crassius Curio, but you can call me Uncle Crassius,” the man said, smiling warmly, a peculiar twinkle in his eyes.

“My name is Sulthyr, I am a Lawman in House Hlaalu, but I need your sponsorship to become a Kinsman. I am proud to be part of this House and I want to make you proud. Make my ancestors proud. I—“

“That’s more than enough, dumpling. Nileno told me  
to expect you. She had nothing but wonderful things to say about you.”

Sulthyr let out a silent sigh of relief. Had he been holding his breath? 

“But first, I want to see who I’m dealing with. Show Uncle Crassius what you have to offer. That’s right, don’t be shy.” His meaning was implicit, but his hungry smile dispelled any ambiguity. It was only then that Sulthyr realized the door had been shut behind him. It was just him and the Councilor now. No doubt everyone else in the Manor knew exactly what was happening behind that door. Sulthyr felt himself blush deeply, his blue-grey cheeks flushing violet. He had expected he would be doing some “favors” for Curio, but something about stripping down under Crassius’s watchful gaze felt far more intimate.

He began undoing the straps and laces of his cuirass, loosening them as far as they would go before slipping the vest-like garment over his head, his gauzy undershirt sticking to the leather and peeling off with it, landing in the empty chair beside him. His exposed skin elicited a soft “hmm” from the Imperial, the deep flush in his cheeks spreading down his chest. He could hear his own pulse pounding in his pointed ears.

Next he unbuckled his boots and stepped out of them, the cool stone floor feeling strange under his bare feet. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been barefoot. In the gentle plains of Cyrodiil, he could go entire seasons without wearing shoes, but the inhospitable terrain of Morrowind did not accommodate such indulgence.

Last were his greaves and leggings, the former secured by a series of buckles down the outsides of his thighs. He took his time with those, letting the greaves fall to the ground before sliding his leggings down his hips, stepping out of them as gracefully as he could. He admitted the brief striptease, if you could even call it that, wasn’t his best work, but he was nervous… and horny.

Crassius drank in the elf with his eyes, looking hungrier by the second. A growl came from deep in his throat as he admired the younger man’s body. Sulthyr remembered then that, unlike the sexually fluid Mer, most human men have cocks, and he… does not. Did the Imperial know what to expect? He was almost too wet to care. He just wanted Crassius to touch him. _Gods, please. Fuck me._

“Yes, I see we’re going to get along splendidly, sweetie-pie,” Curio purred, closing the distance between them in a few confident strides. “You’ll go far with my support. You’re now a Kinsman of House Hlaalu.” He reached out and let his hands graze over the elf’s sides, and then, before Sulthyr could react, Crassius sunk to his knees, his face now precariously close to the elf’s mound. The only thing between them was a thin cotton undergarment. He inhaled deeply through his nose, savoring his scent. Sulthyr couldn’t help but blush harder and glance away, embarrassed. He could still feel the other man’s breath on his clit, and it only made him wetter… and harder.

“Can Uncle Crassius pretty please have a taste?” the kneeling man crooned, leaning in so that his lips lightly grazed over the elf’s pubic bone. Even that light touch elicited a whimper from the Dunmer, and he leaned into the stimulation unconsciously.

“Is that a yes, dumpling? You smell delicious. I bet you taste twice as good.”

Sulthyr swallowed hard, his throat suddenly bone dry. He attempted a response, but all that came out was a squeak. Instead he nodded and placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder. Curio didn’t need any further prompting and immediately buried his face between the elf’s legs, licking and sucking desperately, not at all concerned about the undergarment in his way. A bolt of electricity shot up Sulthyr’s spine and his legs threatened to give out under him. He stumbled back a step and leaned into the wall for support, Crassius’s mouth following him dutifully. The Councilor would’ve had to be a gifted conversationalist to rise to his position, but the elf hadn’t guessed that his tongue was talented in other ways. He bit his lip, struggling to contain a moan, not sure whether anyone was listening at the door.

The older man stopped his ministrations for a moment. “No need to be shy, sweet thing. Be as loud as you want.” He flicked the tip of his tongue over the Dunmer’s stiff clit, eliciting another moan.

As though suddenly aware of the fabric barrier, the Imperial’s ringed hands now searched for the waistband, finding it and peeling them off before lifting the smaller man’s legs, pinning him against the wall with his body, devouring him. One of his fingers slipped inside the elf’s wetness, and then two, massaging a sensitive spot deep inside him. The internal stimulation was enough to send him teetering over the edge.

“Crassius, I’m– I’m so close,” the Dunmer groaned, his hips bucking.

“That’s _Uncle_ Crassius.” He renewed his efforts, quickening his pace and making vicious circles around the elf’s engorged clit, adding, “Cum for Uncle, my dumpling.”

Sulthyr’s entire body seemed to clench before he climaxed, falling over the precipice, swearing and grabbing at the Imperial’s hair. In that moment nothing seemed to exist except for the overwhelming sensations vibrating through his body, his clit humming conduit between this realm and Aetherius. _This,_ he thought, _must be what divinity feels like._ Crassius’s desperate mouth gave him no reprieve, pushing him to a second peak and beyond.

When the Councilor was finally done with his sweet treat, and the Kinsman exhausted and shaking, Crassius gently maneuvered the other man onto the bed before crawling in beside him, pulling him into a warm embrace. Curio was still fully dressed, and his fine clothes against Sulthyr’s nakedness felt deliciously indulgent.

“So, dumpling. When are you going to visit your dear old Uncle again?”


End file.
